


Old Winds

by zuzeca



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Arguing, Beating, Communication Failure, Continuity What Continuity, Cop Fetish, Fluff and Angst, Genital Torture, Gun Kink, Gunplay, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Masochism, Police Brutality, Rough Sex, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-08 21:29:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4321440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuzeca/pseuds/zuzeca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Megatron comes to Optimus with an unusual request.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Winds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spaceliquid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceliquid/gifts).



> For spaceliquid's birthday. Forgive me, madam, this ended up half masochistic Megatron and conflicted Optimus and half sequel to Cooking Off with a huge dollop of fluff on top ~~plus I wrote part of it at SDCC so hopefully nobody was reading over my shoulder~~. ;A; I hope you enjoy it and are having a wonderful birthday. *hugs*

Optimus checks his blaster for what must be the fifth time that cycle, thumbing the safety back and forth in restless, nervous habit, and scans the darkened street. The shops are all closed now, their squishy, alien proprietors scampered home to their small, subterranean dwellings, though this side of town has barely any shops to speak of, the streets lined with industrial warehouses and the odd factory, belching smoke into the hazy night sky.

Movement in the street, the clank of metal on paved stone, the hiss of moving pistons. Megatron has never excelled at stealth. Optimus watches as Megatron emerges into the flickering blue pool of a streetlamp, helm raised as he searches the shadows, and Optimus’s tank turns.

It isn’t that he’s surprised by Megatron’s request, per se. Optimus has lived a long enough life, and Megatron is hardly the first mechanism he has encountered who desired Optimus bring the trappings of his former career into the berth. But this is no mumbled request for stasis cuffs, no coy plea for a tumble against the wall of a prison cell. This is something darker.

Megatron wants to see the cop.

And considering the brutality they have visited upon each other on the field of battle, considering Orion Pax’s reputation for non-lethality, Optimus cannot for the life of him imagine why.

Megatron is waiting and Optimus has missed his cue, but still he hesitates, deductive programming, the very programming that made him such a good police officer to begin with, working furiously, an energon splinter in his processor.

Megatron shifts, impatient, and Optimus shakes off the paralysis, holstering his blaster and strolling out into the light, switching with ease to a relaxed, controlled patrol gait, shoulders squared, occupying more space, alert to the possibility of violence.

“Citizen,” he says, acknowledging Megatron, tone neutral, his field blank and controlled, as though they are strangers, as though the spark that beats inside that powerful chassis does not make his own sing at its nearness.

“Officer,” says Megatron, optics darting. He tenses and shifts again.

Focus. Optimus moves to intercept, movements casual. “It is rather late to out and about in this part of the city,” he says. “What is your business here?”

“I am…meeting with a friend,” says Megatron. “He works at one of the factories.”

“Working late, is he?”

“Yes.”

Optimus smiles behind his mask, tight and unamused. “A good story,” he says. “Empty your subspace.”

Megatron goes rigid. He glances at the shadows, gauging the distance to safety. “I carry nothing.”

“I am sure,” says Optimus, his tone pleasant and steely. “Empty it, or I will do it for you.”

Megatron hesitates, but at last his hand goes to his side and vanishes. He produces a small handful of shanix and a datapad. He pauses, looking at Optimus.

“All of it,” says Optimus.

“I—”

“Here,” says Optimus, stepping in, an invasion of space, sliding his fingers along Megatron’s arm and delving into his subspace. “Let me help you.”

Even though they’ve discussed this, it still makes Optimus’s core twist, the way Megatron goes stiff at the violation, because it is violation. He knows Megatron can feel his fingers, rough and rummaging inside, bypassing a few more shanix and another datapad and closing around what he already knows he will find. He withdraws the grenade, holds it up to the light. “As you said: nothing.”

It had been a source of vicious debate. Megatron had initially, and perhaps jokingly, held up his battered datapad, twirling it between his fingers. Anti-functionist propaganda, he’d teased, and the golden officer doing his duty.

Optimus had nearly thrown him out.

_“What is your malfunction?” snapped Megatron, forcing back the door that Optimus was attempting to slam in his face. “It was a joke.”_

_“It was not an amusing one,” said Optimus, steely, bracing and tugging harder on the door. “And if you cannot see how accusing me of such a thing is not vile in the extreme, I do not wish to speak to you.”_

_Megatron snorted. “We both know you were never a functio—”_

_“Do you have no concept of what I could have done to you?” Optimus’s voice rose in a shout. “What I was **expected** to do to you, by the regulations of my position, when your writings fell into my hands?”_

_Megatron recoiled, “What?”_

_“Imprisonment,” Optimus said, seething. “Re-education. Full reprogramming if necessary. Execution if you could not be turned. Proteus’s laws concerning dissenters were ironclad. Dissenters, and those who protected them.”_

_Megatron drew in a sharp breath. “I—”_

_“You were not the first anti-functionist for whom I risked my career, my safety, by looking the other way.” Optimus cycled his vents, trying to cool his anger. “I will give you what you desire, Primus knows it is not the first time I have been asked for it, but do not mock me.”_

_Megatron released his hold on the edge of the door and reached out, curling his hand behind Optimus’s head and pressing their helms together. “You are right,” he said simply. “It was not funny.”_

Megatron’s optics widen. He wrenches away from Optimus and turns, reaching for another weapon perhaps. Too slow, Optimus snags his wrist, dropping the grenade and using Megatron’s momentum to turn him, shove him up against the wall of a nearby building. Yanks Megatron’s arm up behind him, bending the hinge joint until cables creak and metal strains and squeals. Megatron doesn’t flinch, but he does hunch forward, helm grinding against the rough stone of the wall.

“Officer,” he says, and Optimus can hear him panting already, systems reving, from the strain or the excitement it’s impossible to tell. “I am sure this is just a misunderstanding.”

“Oh?” says Optimus, pulling up harder on Megatron’s arm. He kicks Megatron’s feet apart, forcing him off-balance, to stand spread. “Loitering after curfew? Possession of unregistered weaponry? Lying to an officer of the law? Tell me, am I missing anything?”

“I…”

“However,” says Optimus, letting his voice purr down into the calm, convincing tone programmed for negotiations, “misunderstanding or not, I am not…unmerciful.” He gives into his longing for a moment and nuzzles the back of Megatron’s helm, breathing in the metal dust and ozone scent of him, feeling the dark, excited flicker of Megatron’s field, letting it relax him and ease his disquiet, this evidence of Megatron’s arousal. Megatron wants this, wants him.

Megatron shudders against him, deep and wracking, and snaps his helm backwards, smashing into Optimus’s battlemask. Optimus reels but does not lose his grip and Megatron twists. They stagger backwards and Optimus sweeps Megatron’s feet from under him. Megatron goes down, knee guards clanging high and sharp against the street surface and catching himself with his free hand. Optimus forces him forward, helm down, aft raised, and it’s nearly a relief because he’s grappled with Megatron enough times to know he’s throwing the encounter, that he wishes to be conquered, that if this were deadly serious that Megatron would make Optimus bleed for the privilege of Megatron on his knees.

Megatron glares up at him over his shoulder guard, red optics sharp in the darkness, and Optimus backhands him across the face. Megatron’s head snaps to the side and a fine spatter of energon patters onto the pavement. He must have bitten his glossa, painful but non-lethal. “Resisting detainment,” Optimus says, wrenching Megatron’s arm higher until he arches, his field an electrical storm of pain and pleasure signals. “But still, you do not seem like a bad sort. I would like to let you go.” He bends low over Megatron’s back, vents warm air across the clustered touch and audio receptors on the sides of his helm, “Provided you can convince me.”

Megatron expression roils and he spits a glob of energon in Optimus’s face. It splashes against the side of Optimus’s mask, scent acrid and chemical. Optimus raises an orbital ridge. “Suit yourself,” he says, and shoves Megatron into the pavement, pulling cuffs from his subspace and wrestling Megatron into them. Megatron rolls over, kicking out and snarling, a leashed beast, and Optimus backs off to watch him struggle.

“Filth,” Megatron growls, no longer the placating citizen. “Are you so desperate for berthmates that you must accost innocents? Or are there no turbofoxes for you to sate yourself on?” He twists in his bonds, exposing his abdominal plating in goading invitation.

Optimus takes the cue and kicks him, foot thudding solidly against Megatron’s plating. Megatron doubles over, groaning, and Optimus kicks him again, aiming for the seam between two thoracic plates, a strike he knows will send a jarring impact through peripheral circuitry. “Such language,” he says. “Perhaps I should provide you with something more productive to occupy your mouth.”

Megatron bares his fangs in a grin, optics bright and blazing. “Try it and you may lose something sensitive.”

Optimus laughs. “I never said I did not enjoy a challenge.”

Megatron’s optics dialate. “Then do it,” says Megatron. “Who will stop you? Break me, tear me apart, put those brutish fists of yours to my helm until I hemmorhage sparks. Would that make you happy? To indulge yourself on another wasted spark?”

Something clicks in Optimus’s processor, datapoints connecting, and he goes rigid, cold. The sick, roiling memory of a grainy holovid, watching it over and over again while his spark pulsed with despair. His hands shaking as he filled out the report. The little cameras nestled in the top of the cells in Rodion were always on the chopping block in budget meetings. Why bother, the other officers said. Wasted energon, wasted time, wasted resources.

Wasted spark.

Cold vanishes and boiling anger rises to take its place. Optimus curses and drops the act, drags Megatron to his feet and wrestles him down into the alley, out of the empty street. A door, he’d made note of it, his scanners read an empty warehouse. He kicks it down and shoves Megatron inside.

Still cuffed, Megatron stumbles over the threshold, turning and swearing. “Slag it all, Optimus, what—”

Optimus grabs Megatron by the shoulders and slams him against a wall. “How dare you,” he says, livid.

“What the slag are you—”

“Do not prevaricate,” says Optimus, voice a low growl and though while standing he’s a half a head shorter, Megatron still jerks back, optics wide. “I know what you were doing. You lied to me.”

“I did not lie,” says Megatron, puzzled and scowling and stubborn.

“You arranged this under false pretenses.”

Megatron scoffs. “Is this about you getting cold actuators? I cannot imagine why, you were doing splendidly up until—”

“I am not him!” Optimus bellows, and Megatron stiffens. “I am not him and I will never be him! Did you think I did not know? That you could slip your traumas past me and reap whatever satisfaction you expected to find while I remained ignorant? I care for you beyond all sense and measure so I will give you what you say you need but I will not be a proxy for him!”

Megatron’s optics are wide in the darkness of the warehouse. His cuffed hands are pressing into Optimus’s abdominal plating and he’s panting, low and rapid. “Optimus…”

“No more lies,” says Optimus, and something in his core twists in remembered grief. “Tell me what you want.”

“Hurt me,” says Megatron. “And then frag me hard. Take me to the edge, over it.”

Optimus pulls his blaster from its holster, the same blaster he’s carried for millennia, the touch of its stock and grip as well-worn and familiar as an old lover.

“As you wish,” he says simply, and strikes Megatron across the face with the barrel.

Megatron’s head snaps to the side and he groans, deep resonant tones from the bottom of his vocalizer. Optimus watches him carefully, the dented plating, the trickle of energon from the corner of his mouth, the strange, blissful expression on his face.

Beyond all sense and measure.

He goes in again, letting his programming guide him. Maximum pain, minimum damage, precisely the amount of force needed to overcome Megatron’s armor. The consummate officer to the core. Megatron’s optics are dark, his head thrown back as Optimus works him over, and when Optimus finally steps back to survey the damage, dents and scrapes and small, broken energon lines, there is a fine sheen of lubricant on the edges of Megatron’s panel.

Optimus taps Megatron’s interface panel with the tip of his blaster, a sharp rap, and Megatron withdraws it. He’s leaking profusely now, glowing rivulets of lubricant tracking their way down his thighs. Optimus strokes the barrel of the blaster up one of Megatron’s legs, watches the liquid collect on the muzzle. His processor races.

An idea forms, coalesces. He aims the blaster at the ground, calculates the distance and angle to keep them protected from blowback or slivers of shrapnel, and fires.

Megatron jumps, a slight movement, optics flicking back on, but Optimus sets a grounding hand on the join of the cuffs and fires again. And again. And again. The stock buzzes in his hand, afterimages of vibration.

Optimus looks up at Megatron, reading the stormy currents of his field, and pushes the superheated blaster tip against the folds of Megatron’s valve.

Megatron cries out, Optimus suspects more from shock than true pain, though his own valve clenches in sympathy. It must be agony, but Megatron is arching into it, begging, shameless and open and Optimus is fixated.

"Be still," he says, and a thrill runs through him as Megatron obeys. Optimus can feel the tremors in Megatron's frame, his own sharp, quick ventilations. He moves the tip of the blaster, nudging it between the folds of Megatron's valve, conflicted, debating the damage he might do. He'd teased Megatron about this, but the few times he'd given it serious consideration had all been fanciful, or coupled with the firm knowledge that they would do it properly, Megatron on his back, cursing and moaning and wet while Optimus opens him, coaxing and gentle.

This, this will hurt, will damage.

"Please," says Megatron, deep and rough.

"Still," Optimus repeats. He switches his grip to Megatron's shoulder, squeezes it, as much to comfort himself as to remind Megatron. He checks the safety again and pushes forward.

Megatron goes rigid, optics clicking and whirring, impossibly wide. His valve is resistant and Optimus's own tightens in both empathetic response and shameful excitement. He squeezes Megatron's shoulder harder and pushes on, inexorable, until he feels something give, or rip, and the barrel of the blaster sinks inside Megatron. Megatron's vocalizer spits static and his back bows.

"Easy," says Optimus, and then urgently, "Am I...?" 'Am I hurting you?' is the wrong question. "Are you...alright?"

Megatron's optics clear and he laughs, the sound strained but genuine and his field pulses with an affection that makes Optimus want to pull him close to his spark. "I am well," Megatron says, and smirks. "If you will recall, this is not the first time you have taken a weapon to my interface array."

Optimus gapes at him and splutters. "That--you mean the Vorsk Offensive? I split you in half!"

"Mm," says Megatron in agreement, though his optics are mischievous. "Much as you are doing now."

Optimus scowls and twists the blaster. Megatron gasps and hunches towards him. "Yes," he breathes. "Yes, like that."

Optimus pushes him further against the wall, forcing Megatron to brace with his shoulders and hikes one of Megatron's legs up over his hip, widening the space. Optimus adjusts his grip on the blaster and fucks him open, slick with lubricants and energon and it seems strange, impossible, but Megatron's field is spiking with ecstasy.

"That's it," says Optimus, his confidence growing. "Are you close?"

"Yes," says Megatron, optics distant, attention inward.

"Good," says Optimus. "Don't hold back."

Megatron twists in his bonds, restless, but he does not fall. Optimus keeps the rhythm, but clicks the safety off; Megatron's breath hitches.

"What is it you need?" says Optimus. "You spoke of weapons..." He does not tell Megatron he would sooner cut off one of his own limbs than do him permanent damage, but he does cycle the blaster on, perfectly controlled, building the energy, and with it the heat. Against outer armor it would hardly be of note, but against the ragged, sensitive protoform lining Megatron's valve, it is surely agonizing.

Megatron jerks against him and overloads, a sudden, sharp convulsion. Optimus grips him and continues to thrust, drawing it out before stilling and carefully withdrawing the blaster. Megatron groans as it leaves him and Optimus ducks his head to check his valve. It's gaping open, leaking lubricant and not a little energon, and there is surely damage further in that Optimus cannot see, but Megatron is smiling, relaxed, and his field glows a riot of emotion that has Optimus pulling him close and burying his face against Megatron's throat.

"Thank you," Megatron says. He shifts under Optimus, warm and encouraging. "Come, in me. I can feel how tightly wound you are."

It's a bad idea, but Megatron has always excelled at bringing together Optimus and bad ideas. He groans as he frees his spike, hands drifting down to grip the sides of Megatron's pelvic span so he may slide inside. The grip of Megatron's valve is almost too loose, but everything is slick with lubricants and Optimus finds himself grinding against the apex of Megatron's array, nuzzling blindly into Megatron's neck until at last his resistors trip and he spills across Megatron's belly. His fingers tighten, ventilations harsh, a little ashamed to realize that he is trembling harder than Megatron.

Megatron presses his face against the top of Optimus's helm. "Do you know why I asked this of you?" he says.

Optimus can guess many reasons, but he only asks "Why?"

"Because I knew that you would hurt me, just as I asked," says Megatron. "And because I knew that you would not."

Optimus sighs and rests his head against Megatron, listening to the warm and familiar pulse of his spark. "I know," he says, because the words he wants to say are too fragile to bring out into open air on an alien planet. "Let us go home."


End file.
